"Yes, dear. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind closing my window for me. I tried to get up myself, but I had a sort of presentiment that—that you were awake and that perhaps you would—would like to come to me."
"Oh, I was awake, wide, wide awake. I couldn't sleep to save myself. Isn't the wind terrible!"
"It's dying down, I think."
"Oh, it's fiercer than ever," cried the girl wildly. "It's just terrible. I can't bear to hear it. I been awake all night. Just seems as if that wind was shoutin' and screamin' and makin' mock of me, Mrs. Langdon. It's banging upon my—heart. I hate the wind. I think it's alive—a horrible, wild thing. It fights and laughs at me. It's driving me mad."
"Ah, Nettie, you are not yourself these days. It is not the wind, but what is in your heart that speaks. We can even control the wind if we wish. Christ did, and the Christ spirit is in us all, if we only knew how to use it."
Nettie had closed the windows. On her knees by Mrs. Langdon's bed, she was pulling the covers up and tucking them closely about her, and chafing the thin, cold hands.
"You're cold. Your hands are just like ice. I'm going downstairs to heat some water and fill the hot-water bag for you."
"No, no, Nettie. You go right back to bed. I'll go down myself by and by, if I feel the need of the bag."
But though Nettie promised to go back to bed, she hurried down to the lower floor. She had no longer fear of the wind or the darkness. Her mind was intent upon securing the hot-water bag, and she built up a fire in the dead range, and set the kettle upon it.
She was bending over the wood-box, picking but a likely log, when something stirred behind her. Still stooping, she remained still and tense. Slowly the Bull's great arms reached down from behind and enfolded her.